


Until Dawn

by zanni



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Sex, Unrequited Love, talking about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni/pseuds/zanni
Summary: On the eve of the barricades rising, Jehan asks Montparnasse to spend the night with him.





	Until Dawn

“Montparnasse!”

 

The young dandy turns at hearing his name. Jean Prouvaire is running up behind him, his mustard coat unmistakable and Montparnasse slows down his stroll to let him catch up.

 

“I was hoping to see you. I knew that if I saw you, I must speak to you, for it would surely be fate. Will you walk with me?” It’s an odd greeting, although not the strangest Jehan has used, but there is something else today, some wild urgency behind his usually dreamy eyes. Montparnasse follows him.

 

It’s a warm June evening. The sun hasn’t set long ago and the streetlights have not yet been lit, leaving everything in a quiet and shadowless twilight. He looks up at Jehan, but now that the student has grabbed his attention, he seems to be interested in everything except him. New and old buildings, the sounds and smells of the streets, fallen leaves, a quick stray cat, he’s taking everything in as if seeing them for the first time. Once or twice their gazes cross, but it is fleeting, as if now is not the right moment, and Jehan looks at a passing coach, or at a stone, or at a window where dim candlelight shows life inside.

 

“But the stars will always be here.” He whispers, looking at the sky, and Montparnasse cannot tell if the poet is speaking to him at all, so softly were those words pronounced, and nothing else after them. 

 

They keep walking in silence, heading towards Jehan’s chambers it seems. Montparnasse doesn’t mind; he doesn’t know how to reply to half of what Jehan says in any case, and he feels his own mouth is better suited for other things.

 

“Will you spend the night with me?” Jehan asks when they reach the door to his buiding, almost shy, as if they had never done this before.

 

“Why else would I have come this way?”

 

*

 

 

As usual, the air is sweet and thick in Jehan’s place, from perfumes and tobacco and opium, mixed with the dust from old books, piled antiquities and lack of frequent cleaning. Today there is no offering of a pipe or reading of a poem. Jehan is staring at him with the same strange urgency from before, so Montparnasse takes off his hat and his coat, and grabs the student's cravat, pulling him in for a kiss. As soon as their lips touch, Jehan looses all his inhibitions, pushing Montparnasse onto the bed, unbuttoning and unlacing all of his clothes.

 

He covers his body in hard kisses and soft bites, and holds him close, a bit too close and a bit too tight, and Montparnasse can barely breathe, Jehan moaning in his ear as he spends between his legs, not letting go. Montparnasse thrusts his hips and rubs against him until he comes as well. He sighs, relaxed, and lets the Jehan fall on top of him in the sheets. They stay this way for a while, until the poet rolls over and breaks the silence.

 

 

“I think I will die tomorrow.”

 

Ah, so they have set a date for their rebellion. Montparnasse hasn’t heard of this before and he takes it as a bad sign. Not enough whispers, not enough people. They must be either stupid or delusional. Not that he’s ever had any hope for their cause, but what’s the use of sacrificing yourself in a hopeless fight? There’s nothing beautiful in death, he’s seen it enough times; all beauty remains with the living.

 

“Then don’t go.”

 

“But I must. I believe we will make a change, even if I am not there to see it in the end.” There’s a pause and Jehan's face softens. “Will you weep for me, Montparnasse?” he asks with a sad smile, gently touching the thief’s cheek.

 

Montparnasse doesn’t reply. He looks at the tapestry in the wall, the candles illuminating a unicorn among flowers, and two ladies in medieval dresses, one on each side. There’s some story behind it, and another story on how Jehan had aquired it, both had been recited with much passion in one of their previous encounters here, but he can’t remember any of them. He wishes Courfeyrac had been the one to find him this evening. He would have wanted to have fun, an old fashioned romp before the fight, drinks and cheers, an _I’ll find you when this is over_ , and Montparnasse would have played along, whether he believed his words or not. But this... this he doesn’t know how to deal with.

 

“I can visit your grave, if you wish.”

 

“Yes... Yes, I would like that. Bring me a rose, my beautiful and cruel muse.”

 

He has let go of Montparnasse, and his eyes have turned elsewhere, unfocused, probably imagining him visiting the Prouvaire family mausoleum, with fresh flowers waiting for him. Jehan had shown him the mausoleum once, months ago. He liked to take strolls in cemeteries, he'd said then, to feel the history of Paris through the individuals who had lived there. Everyone left their mark, even if just a headstone, and it made him feel peaceful and in awe. Montparnasse remembers thinking of common graves, and of bodies thrown in the Seine. He didn't say it then and he doesn't say it now. Jehan turns to him again.

 

 

“I love you.”

 

He knows. That Jehan loves him, or at least loves some idealized version of him, where death is tragic and fascinating and never described as murder. It’s not as if he dislikes Jehan; he is fond of him, in his own way, as much as he could be of a rich boy with a noble ancestry. He could tell him he loved him too, if only to lift his spirits. But that would be dishonest, and Jehan is so sweet and genuine, despite all the fantasy in his mind, that Montparnasse feels he deserves better. Or, if not better, at least the truth. So he straddles Jehan and leans down to kiss him, a sweet kiss for his sweet lips.

 

“Then make love to me until dawn,” he whispers, in a voice he hopes is alluring enough to distract the other of his chosen death sentence, “I’ll do anything you like.”

  

*

  

It doesn’t last until dawn. When Jehan falls alseep, Montparnasse gets up quietly, and gathers his clothes from the divan next to the bed. It is better this way. He takes the rose from his buttonhole and places it in the poet’s desk, in a spot he knows he won’t miss when he wakes up. He looks at Jehan one last time, his sleeping face peaceful, illuminated by the full moon, so pale he seems dead already. But beneath there is still a beating heart. Warm skin, warm lips. Warm eyes. It’s a strange feeling, and for a moment Montparnasse considers staying until the sun rises, as if he has some responsability to comfort him and say goodbye in the morning.

 

But he doesn’t; only the rose stays. A single gift for all the gifts he’s received and all the ones he’s stolen, a memento to keep him company in the barricades.

 

Montparnasse leaves without a sound, like the thief in the night that he is, and the moon welcomes him in the streets.


End file.
